


Loosening the Ends

by pillar_of_salt



Category: Madam Secretary
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Abuse, Flashbacks, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24989449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pillar_of_salt/pseuds/pillar_of_salt
Summary: It isn't the secrets or the lies that are pulling Nadine's life apart, nor is it the grief. It's the fact that, after everything she'd done for him, the man she loves is now dead. A two-parter, pre-series through early season 1. Dark(ish) AU.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for drug abuse, addiction, and mild sexual situations.

_But when you're wearing on your sleeve,_

_All the things you regret,_

_You can only remember what you want to forget_

_You feel it tugging at your heart,_

_Like the stars overhead,_

_'Til you rest your bones on the killing bed..._

_—Brandi Carlile, "The Things I Regret"_

* * *

She isn't so good with planes these days. Not since Vincent's plummeted into the Atlantic and took half her heart with him.

In two days, Vincent's home state will hold a memorial service in his honor and all of the staff will fly out to pay their respects. On the day of their departure, Nadine nurses a blinding headache behind the protection of her sunglasses, feeling nauseous with grief. Out on the runway she looks up to see the plane rumbling with life, raring to deliver them to Chicago. Or to their death. Whichever happens first.

Without warning, the pain in her skull plummets into her chest, and the drop is so violent and sharp that she nearly doubles over and vomits right there on the blacktop. She won't make it onto the plane. She can't get on the plane. She's certain that she's dying right here. She can't get on the plane.

She learns later that her panic attack was so severe it bursts a blood vessel in the corner of her eye. Her doctor prescribes her Xanax after that. And the team attends the memorial service without her.

She's resistant, at first, to taking it. But if she wants to keep her job (and she does, she needs it, it's all she has left) then she has little choice. Air travel is a non-negotiable requirement and she has to be able to get her ass back on that plane.

So she takes the Xanax so that she can stop hyperventilating every time she has to fly. She takes it and tells herself she is coping. Sometimes (oftentimes) she takes a few more than she's supposed to and pretends that she is dealing with her grief in normal, healthy ways.

It's inconsequential, anyhow. She _is_ dealing. Her methods are not for others to judge.

/

The memories hit her at any given moment, without warning.

She'll think she's fine, and in the next second a word or stray scent or tableau in front of her will trigger a flashback and the next thing she knows she's in pieces all over again. It isn't just grief; it's profound and aching _loss_. He'd been the most important person in her life.

She can't live like this.

Nadine becomes highly functional on a daily diet of too many benzos, washed down with tea. They become her crutch; essential to her survival. They take away the teeth, dull the razor-sharp edges of her heartache. Her anxiety is no longer set on a hair-trigger. She is _fine_. And no one notices that anything is wrong.

/

_She's been teasing him all day long and she knows it; the skirt that's just a little too tight and too short to (in good conscience) be called professional; the fuck-me pumps that are a fraction too high; the dark red lips; the blouse that's undone one button past decency._

_Out in the conference room, she passes by him just a breath too close, brushing her ass against the front of his pants under the guise of attempting to squeeze past him. A murmured "my apologies, Mister Secretary," purrs from her mouth as she does it. She can hear Vincent's quiet little intake of breath, and it makes her smile to herself._

_When she hands him the copy-edited version of the latest Tehran report, she leans over his desk, presenting him with an eyeful right at the level of his face. She puts a little arch in her back, showing herself off to her best advantage. He's almost glaring at her now, and she ignores it, going on with her discussion of the numbers._

_She's playing a dangerous game—he'll probably punish her for it later._

_She can't wait._

/

Nadine blinks. Daydreaming again.

She leans her head into her palm. Looks down at the little white pill on her desk. She flicks at it with the tip of her nail, sends it skittering across the wood. She shouldn't. She already took one this morning.

Her work phone buzzes to life with an incoming call. She glances over at it and frowns, declining the call with the tap of a finger. She wishes he would quit trying to reach her. She wishes everyone would quit _needing_ her.

Her sigh is listless. She's just so tired.

There's a knock at her door. Nadine calmly turns her phone face-down and flattens her hand over the bare tablet before sliding it into the open drawer. Closes it. Inhale _._ Exhale _._ She stiffens her spine.

"Come in," she says. And her voice is strong and clear.

/

She finds that she likes to unwind, these days, with more scotch than she used to. Two glasses, instead of her requisite one. Three, if her day has been long or hard or both. (This is most days.) She is careful not to self-medicate in high doses while drinking. She's in pain; not suicidal. Not reckless. But half a pill on her tongue, sipped down on a smooth mouthful of scotch, creates a bliss so pure and powerful that she couldn't resist it if she tried. It's better than sex. Better than an orgasm. She sinks into a high so sumptuous that she can almost forget about everything that has fallen to pieces around her. She can be deliriously happy.

/

Another call; the third attempt this week. And it's still only – Nadine checks her desk calendar and frowns at the finding—it's only Tuesday. She declines the call, as she has declined all the others, and gets back to work.

/

"Hello, this is Nadine Tolliver."

She realizes a split-second too late her mistake. The person on the other end of the line begins his furious pitch and Nadine's free hand balls up anxiously. It was stupid of her to answer. She hadn't recognized the number, but had assumed that the call was work-related and picked up.

She hadn't recognized the number because it was a burner phone. Stupid of her. Stupid.

"Leave me the hell alone," she hisses vehemently into the phone, and ends the call.

She isn't afraid of him. The problem is, he isn't afraid of her either.

/

Nadine is excellent at her job; that had never been the problem. Her work doesn't suffer from her intermittent struggles with sobriety—it's all the other parts of her life that could use a little help. She's been doing better recently, though—drinking less, medicating less. She can now sleep through the night again without pharmacological help.

But the confirmation of this new Secretary of State sends her right back into a tailspin. Honestly. The president plucked an academic off of a godforsaken _horse farm_ and expects her to lead their country through diplomacy. It's an insult to Vincent's legacy and an affront to Nadine's department.

Nadine finds herself popping extra doses again; just enough to take the edge off her anger, enough to dull the frustration of trying to manage the most stubborn, impossible, and unmanageable woman she could have possibly been given.

"Conrad fucking Dalton," she mutters to herself, after she walks the Secretary through prepared talking points for her luncheon with the Spanish ambassador and then has to watch in silent horror as the woman goes completely off-script at the table. Nadine wonders if it would be possible to scream into her wine glass without anybody noticing her.

Nadine knows that she is a hard woman to win over, but the Secretary slowly manages it, racking up more good outcomes for the department than bad. Nadine cannot deny that Elizabeth McCord is… impressive. When she compares McCord to Vincent Marsh, she can't help but find Marsh wanting. Nadine finds herself working harder; eager to win herself into the other woman's good graces and eager to stay there. _Desperate_ to please. Though this about-face in attitude happens gradually, it still gives Nadine whiplash.

What a mess she is. Her intentions swing to either extreme like the pendulum of a clock—she has to medicate just to keep herself on even keel. Nadine wonders if the Secretary thinks she's crazy.

"Nadine?"

She looks up to see the Secretary leaning into the open doorway to Nadine's office. "Yes ma'am?"

"I need you to get me Andrew Munsey ASAP."

"Andrew Munsey, ma'am?" Nadine echoes dumbly. Under her desk, her hands curl into tight fists.

"There's no way I'm letting him off the hook for Operation Stupid Kids. I'd like you to sit in on our meeting."

"Yes ma'am," she says neutrally.

"Thank you." Elizabeth leaves, presumably for the break room.

Nadine takes two deep breaths, then picks up the phone to dial the Langley office.

/

_She's laying in his bed, draped over his bare chest. The Venezuelan sun is just breaking dawn over the ranch, bleeding soft rays of light through the crack in the curtain. Nadine sighs, happy and sore._

_She feels Vincent brush his fingers through her hair. "Good morning," he mutters sleepily._

" _Good morning," she says. She kisses his chest. "You wore me out last night."_

_He chuckles, and she can feel the rumble under her cheek. "I think it's the other way around, love."_

_She grins. She raises up on her elbows so that she can see his face._

" _Hey," he says, "I got you something."_

" _Hmm?"_

 _He reaches one hand out and pulls open the nightstand drawer. He withdraws a black velvet box and hands it to her. "I meant to give it to you last night, but someone was_ exceptionally _eager."_

 _Nadine smiles. She turns to the box and opens the lid. "Oh," she delights. "I love it." It's a simple pendant—a gold Buddha on a delicate, gleaming chain. It's very_ her _._

_Vincent lifts her free hand to his mouth and kisses it. "I saw it and thought of you."_

" _You didn't have to get me anything."_

" _I wanted to."_

_Nadine frees it from its velvet case and turns her body in an unspoken request, lifting her hair. Vincent sits up behind her and takes the necklace from her hands, unfastening it. He drapes it over her neck and clasps it in the back. He presses a soft kiss there._

_She turns back around and rises up on her knees, the sheet falling away from her body as she moves to straddle Vincent's hips. He slides his hands up her thighs as she gathers her hair in her hands and lifts it up, away from her face and neck like a pin-up girl, showing off her new jewelry. Among other things. "What do you think?" she asks._

" _Beautiful," he says. He smiles at her dazzlingly, and it makes her heart flutter with wild anticipation inside her chest. "I am… so in love with you," he says. He sits up, so that they're face to face. "I love you so much."_

_Her breath catches in her throat. She never gets tired of hearing it. "I love you too," she whispers, and brings her lips to his._

/

The texts and calls to her work phone have stopped. Her personal phone, however, is a different story. She never replies and never picks up, and so her voicemail rapidly fills up with brief and unsettling messages. She can hardly block the number before a new one takes landing in her inbox. Men, she's learned over and over again, hate to be ignored. This man in particular.

She listens to one—just one!—voice message before she can stop herself. Because she has to know.

" _We don't like loose ends. Call me."_

Nadine flinches. She deletes that message hastily, and all the others that are no doubt just like it. And then she blocks that number, too.

/

She misses Vincent. Some days, she misses him so intensely that she feels like her chest could crack right in half and bleed out all of her yearning onto the carpet. Down her dress, all over her shoes. All of her grief laid bare for everyone to see. She misses the intimacy; misses sharing herself with another person; misses the feeling of knowing someone else so completely.

So maybe she's just confused. Maybe all of this heartache that she carries around with her has made her unbalanced. Maybe she's confusing respect for… other things.

Because she _likes_ Elizabeth McCord. She likes that Elizabeth is a good diplomat, a fair boss, and a generous humanitarian. She likes that Elizabeth has a strong moral center and a drive to do good; and she admires that while Elizabeth is nearly always kind, she is easily made ruthless. Nadine admires all of those things, and it makes her want to do better. It makes her eager to please.

But Nadine's _problem_ is that her admiration for Elizabeth feels distressingly similar to her infatuation with Vincent. She is self-aware and horrified, but her clarity does nothing to change a course that has already been set into motion. It unfolds in front of her like a train wreck that she is powerless to stop.

In Elizabeth's office now, running through the finer points of tomorrow's schedule, Nadine studies her disjointedly, intently, taking in her features as Elizabeth talks through some brief or other. Nadine is still a little… well, not _high_ , but the benzos make her process things differently. Everything comes through in kind of fragments like this.

She licks her lips. Absently, she wonders what it would taste like to kiss Elizabeth McCord.

Elizabeth has stopped talking. She glances up, oblivious to Nadine's thoughts. "I think that should do it for today. Was there something else you needed?"

It's been a long time since she's kissed a woman. Or anyone, for that matter. Her skin tingles at the thought.

"Nadine?"

Nadine blinks. She shakes her head, a quick, jerky movement, and sweeps her free hand down the front of her skirt. "No ma'am," she says crisply. "There's nothing else."

/

She's picking out apples at the grocery store when she sees him. He stops on the other side of the produce stand, right in front of her. He's pushing an empty cart. He looks over at the pyramid of granny smiths as if appraising the selection, but makes no move to pick one up.

Nadine tenses, heart thudding in her ears. "I told you to leave me alone," she mutters so only he can hear.

"You're a very difficult woman to get ahold of."

"Take a hint."

"I would just like to talk—" he begins.

"We have nothing to discuss. Don't follow me again." She pushes her cart right past him, empty-handed. She'll circle back around for the apples later, or maybe she'll just leave without them. "And stop calling me!" she hisses.

/

Nadine has occasionally wondered if the Secretary notices that something is wrong with her. If the Secretary knows that she's addicted to her anxiolytics, that she can't function without them, that she sometimes goes through these terrible benders because she uses them inappropriately.

Nadine isn't certain, but she thinks Elizabeth knows; or at the very least, suspects that something is not right. After all, the woman isn't stupid.

Nadine gets her answer for sure the night that she's huddled in her office long after everyone else has gone home. She keeps the lights off and her head bent forward, fingers pressed hard against her skull. She's battling a splitting migraine and has hardly even changed positions in, what, two hours? She can't go anywhere until it dissipates. She can't possibly drive home in this condition.

The problem is that she's withdrawing, just slightly. She's been out of her Xanax and hasn't had the chance to go refill her prescription. The headaches are a nasty and intractable side effect of that, as is the fact that she feels weak and shaky and horribly nauseated.

This is how the Secretary finds her as she's headed out the door.

Nadine hears the soft whisper of the door swinging open against the carpet. She doesn't care enough to lift her head—whoever it is can look their fill and then leave her the hell alone.

But then she hears the sound of heeled footsteps walking in uninvited, followed by the faint trace of a perfume that Nadine has come to recognize as belonging to the Secretary, and the Secretary alone.

"Nadine?" Elizabeth says softly.

Nadine wills her jaw to unclench enough to grit out a reply. "I'm alright," she replies tightly. "It's… it's just a migraine. I've been waiting for it to pass."

She hears Elizabeth step closer, senses the other woman's presence right next to her. Fleetingly, Nadine wonders whether the Secretary even believes her. _Just_ a migraine. Yeah, right.

Elizabeth lays a hand on her shoulder, and the touch is so unexpected that it makes Nadine jump in her seat. "You're having a hard time," Elizabeth says finally. "But you're better than this."

Oh, she knows.

But her audacity makes Nadine's palms itch, and Nadine has to resist the sudden and insane urge to rear back and smack Elizabeth across the cheek. "You don't know that," she says instead.

"I know that you’re a good person. And a strong one. I know that your heart is broken, but please… don't let this ruin you."

Nadine is silent, and when Elizabeth realizes that she will not receive a response, she gives Nadine's shoulder a little squeeze and then releases her. She slips out of the office quietly, and then all that is left of their surreal interaction is the lingering scent of her perfume in the air.


	2. Chapter 2

Nadine is right as rain the next day. Within the depths of her purse, which is tucked safely in the bottom drawer of her desk, new white pills rattle quietly in their bottle like a comforting little secret. She feels human again.

But when the Secretary meets her eyes at the morning meeting, she looks almost… disappointed. Nadine has neither the will nor the inclination to dissect what it could mean. She has a job to do, and as always, she intends to do it well.

That night, Elizabeth marches herself right into Nadine's office a second time.

Nadine looks up at her, startled.

Elizabeth strides over to where Nadine is sitting at her desk, opens the bottom drawer, and extricates Nadine's handbag. Without permission, she begins to rummage around inside it.

"What are you—" Dread curls at the base of Nadine's stomach when she sees what Elizabeth pulls out.

"Come with me," Elizabeth murmurs, and though her voice is soft, it leaves no room for protest. Elizabeth grabs Nadine firmly by the wrist and walks her into the big office, and then into the adjoining bathroom. "I've been more than patient with you. With this," Elizabeth says, and rattles the bottle in her hand jarringly.

"Don't," Nadine pleads, panic leaping into her throat. "Please don't."

Elizabeth cracks open the top of the bottle despite Nadine's weak protestations and pours its contents into the toilet bowl. They makes tiny little plinking noises as they hit the water. Nadine stares down at them, forgetting to blink, as Elizabeth depresses the lever and flushes Nadine's lifelines down the pipes. "Once you leave here," Elizabeth says, "I will go through your desk until I find the rest of your stash, and I'm going to flush that, too."

"There is no stash," Nadine says automatically, staring longingly at the now-empty bottle in Elizabeth's hand. She thinks about the tiny packets she'd taped to the underside of her desk, the lip of the air vent, and the inside of her filing cabinet just that morning. So that she could avoid another situation like last night. "That was it. That was everything."

"Of course it isn't. You're an addict," Elizabeth says in a gentle voice. "You're going to go home now. DS will escort you and perform a drug sweep. They have been authorized to throw out anything they find."

Nadine's shoulders hunch forward defeatedly. Her chest tightens up, and she wonders for a horrifying second if she's going to cry. "I can't work without it," she whispers.

"You've been overworking yourself lately and have thus been feeling under the weather. You've decided to take some sick leave," Elizabeth states, as if reporting a series of events. "Maggie will reschedule your appointments this week, and Jay will take care of your other commitments in your absence." She drops the empty container into the wastebasket and steps forward, clasping Nadine's hand in both of hers. Her skin is warm and dry. This close, she smells like jasmine and musk. "I'm sorry, but I have to do this. I'm worried about you," she says earnestly. "That's why I'm doing this."

Nadine pulls her hand free. "You overstep," she hisses. "We aren't friends." Her humiliation, which had been significantly delayed, is now setting in hard and fast.

Elizabeth snatches her hand back and holds on tight, resisting Nadine's attempts to squirm away again. "This is for your own good. One day you'll see that."

/

" _You know what this dress does to me," Vincent growls in her ear. He presses himself against her so that she can feel the evidence of his words and it makes her gasp._

" _Uh-huh," she breathes._

_He backs her up against the wall and grabs her hands with his. He pins them above her head and grinds himself against her again. "You want this?"_

" _Uh-huh," she says again._

" _How bad?" He transfers both of her hands to one of his and slides his free hand down her leg and under her skirt, then up the back of a bare thigh. He hitches it high on his hip. She tilts her pelvis against him, grinding slowly._

" _So bad." She tries to find his lips with hers, but he moves his head away. "Vincent…"_

_His hand works its way between their bodies and brushes her underwear. Her eyes flutter shut. He presses his fingers against her and she moans. "Let's take care of you," he murmurs._

/

Nadine returns to work clean and sober. It's a fragile thing, but she's got her feet under her now and every day she feels less and less like she might shatter under the weight of her own body. And the Secretary seems pleased.

"It's good to have you back," Elizabeth murmurs so that only she can hear. She lays her hand briefly on Nadine's arm. Everyone else is clearing out of the conference room following the morning run-down.

"Thank you, ma'am," Nadine says. She still feels terribly embarrassed by their last encounter, and suspects she will continue to feel that way for the remainder of her tenure.

Elizabeth gestures toward her office. "If you have a minute, I'd like to catch you up on some things I've been doing while you were out."

"Of course." Nadine follows Elizabeth through the side door, closing it behind her.

Elizabeth crosses the room to the main door and closes that one too. "Have a seat," she calls over her shoulder.

Nadine obeys, settling herself nervously into the seat across from the desk.

Elizabeth walks over, pulls open the top drawer, and withdraws a folded letter. She hands this to Nadine before seating herself. "I found this in your desk while I was looking for your pills," she says. "Would you care to explain it?"

Nadine looks at the Secretary for a long moment, but the other woman gives nothing away. So she slips her glasses onto the end of her nose and unfolds the letter. "It's a bank letter," she says slowly, "for an account under Vincent Marsh's name." She looks up again. "He asked me to keep it for him."

"There are two co-signatories for this account. Carlotta Taniston and Marie Porter. Do those names mean anything to you?"

She has to fight to keep her expression neutral. "Should they?" She doesn't know, exactly, where this is going, but she already knows that she doesn't like it. How much does Elizabeth know?

"Are _you_ Carlotta Taniston?" Elizabeth's voice is hard.

Nadine is silent for a moment. She drops the letter on the desk. "Yes," she says.

Elizabeth nods. "Okay. Thank you for your honesty. I'm going to ignore, for now, all of the laws you've broken in doing this. This letter has uncovered… compelling information. But I think that maybe… with your recovery…" she hesitates, trailing off.

Nadine fills in the gaps. "You think that it might be too much."

"You're still grieving," Elizabeth says. "I don't want to overwhelm you."

Nadine shakes her head. "I don't need the whole story. Just tell me what it is you need, ma'am."

Elizabeth slides a print out of a photo across the desk to her. It's a blown up frame from security cam footage, frozen on the profile of a woman in a blue headscarf. "This is Marie Porter. Do you know her?"

"No." It's half the truth, to be sure. Nadine has never _met_ this woman.

"She was shot dead a few days ago. She was an Iranian national. After I found this letter, I had an old CIA friend of mine run her identity, and just as we were going to intercept her, she turns up dead." Elizabeth takes the photo back. "She had a laptop on her at the time of her death. I had to go through the ringer to get my hands on it, but it was worth it. Her laptop contained information on an Operation Tamerlane, which aims for a regime change in Iran by way of a military coup. A coup arranged by the United States."

Nadine can _feel_ the blood pounding in her ears. "I don't understand," she says.

"There are very high-level American players involved here," Elizabeth says. "Including Marie Porter's handler and Marie Porter's assassin." She pulls out two more photos, this time of two people who Nadine knows _very_ well. "Her handler, Director Andrew Munsey. Her assassin, a CIA operative named Juliet Humphrey." Elizabeth's voice breaks only a hair, but she covers it up well. "They have both been taken into federal custody."

Nadine has just about frozen in her seat. "I see," she manages hoarsely.

"I've learned a lot while you were out, Nadine," Elizabeth says. "And all because of Marsh's bank letter which you were so conveniently hiding."

"I— I wasn't—"

Elizabeth talks over her, with razor-sharp intensity. "Andrew Munsey, Juliet Humphrey, and Vincent Marsh were conspiring to dismantle the Iranian government behind Dalton's back. They were playing a very dangerous game that nearly succeeded in throwing our country into war. And so now I need you to be very honest with me Nadine, because this part is very important. _Did you know about the coup?_ "

Nadine says nothing. It's her silence that gives her away.

Elizabeth's voice is flat. "You did."

Silence.

Understanding dawns. "Carlotta Taniston wasn't just a co-signatory, was she?" Elizabeth asks very quietly. "She was a co-conspirator."

Finally, Nadine nods. "Yes," she whispers. The jig is up. She meets Elizabeth's steely gaze and tries her damndest not to flinch. She longs for a drink, a pill, _something_. "I helped Vincent move the money we used to foot expenses and pay off our people. I arranged meetings between Vincent, Andrew, and Alinejad off the books. I fabricated his official schedules. I… I did everything he asked of me."

She did it for Vincent because she believed in him, did it because she loved him _so damn much_ , did it because she told him once that she'd follow him anywhere and meant it. She's a traitor to her country.

So was he.

"Because he coerced you?" Elizabeth supplies. And Nadine knows a life raft when she sees one, but it's a kindness she doesn't deserve and can't accept.

"Because I loved him," she says. "I wasn't coerced." She meets Elizabeth's eyes. "I knew exactly what I was doing." She will go to prison for this.

"Tell me," Elizabeth says softly.

Nadine swallows against the lump in her throat. "I supported the coup. I believed in it. But Andrew and Juliet became reckless in the way they were manipulating Alinejad, and allowing themselves to be manipulated _by_ Alinejad. It was never going to work. Vincent saw it, and when he backed out, I did too."

"But you never exposed them."

"No."

"Nadine, people have _died_ because you chose to keep their secrets," Elizabeth says, raising her voice slightly.

"The cost was too high," she admits, ashamed by the selfishness her confession implies.

If she exposed them, she ran the risk of incriminating herself. Alternatively, if she made the false claim that Vincent had forced her participation, it would have uncovered the entirely separate scandal that was their affair. Neither option could be more appealing than her silence, and Munsey knew that. He'd taken advantage of this by harassing her endlessly after Vincent's death, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn't hit back. All his phone calls, texts, burner numbers, and even the run-ins at the store—all in his relentless campaign to recommit her to Tamerlane. She had been terrified that one day soon, he'd lose his patience and just _kill_ her instead.

Because what was the thing he'd always say?

No loose ends.

Well she _is_ a loose end. She's unraveled their whole damn thread.

"I could have protected you," Elizabeth says.

Nadine looks up sharply. "Just like you protected George Peters?"

It doesn't make Elizabeth recoil, but it _does_ make her angry. "Don't you dare try to place his death on my shoulders when your silence makes you at least twice as culpable," she snaps.

Nadine dips her head, immediately contrite. "I know he was your friend," she says soberly. "And I _am_ truly sorry."

"Me too." Elizabeth sighs and presses her fingers to her temple. "You know, I have shared with you, on multiple occasions, sensitive and privileged information—"

"I have never once betrayed that information."

"No? So just my trust, then. Just your country."

"I _love_ my country," Nadine says.

Elizabeth looks at her sadly. "Juliet said the same thing."

Nadine has nothing to say to that.

It doesn't matter though, because Elizabeth pulls herself together quickly enough. "We'll have to arrange a meeting with the Attorney General, of course."

Nadine dips her head. "I understand." The AG, Nadine knows, holds no love for traitors.

Elizabeth knows it too. "I doubt she will show you any sympathy," she says. "She showed none to Juliet."

/

" _You know it's never going to work," Nadine tells him. She stands by the entryway with her arms crossed, unwilling to move any closer until Vincent acknowledges her point. "Alinejad is manipulating all of you."_

" _I know," he mutters distractedly, staring out into space. So deep in thought that he hadn't even looked at her once. "We have to pull out."_

" _We do," she confirms. "We're never going to be able to pull it off. The least you and I can do is step back and try not to get buried under the fallout."_

" _No fallout," he says._

" _Vincent please," she snaps, "don't be naive."_

_He looks at her sharply. "No fallout," he repeats. "Not on you."_

_She shakes her head and tries not to let her nerves show; her fear. "You can't promise that."_

" _I promise it," he says firmly._

_She looks away and says nothing. She doesn't believe in his promises; she can't. If even one person finds out, they will all rot in prison for treason._

_Vincent crosses the room to stand right in front of her, but she won't meet his eyes. "Hey," he says gently, and tilts her chin upward with his finger, holding her there until she meets his eyes. "I mean it. I will_ always _protect you. I promise."_

_Her voice breaks on her fear. "And who will protect you?"_

/

Nadine has a visitor.

Elizabeth is already seated and waiting at the table when the guard leads Nadine inside the visitation room. Nadine hesitates before lowering herself into the cold metal chair, her chains clattering harshly in the silent room. To say she is surprised would be a lie.

The guard secures her restraints to the metal furnishings and moves to stand in the corner of the room.

"Marsh ruined you," Elizabeth says without preamble. "You can't even see it because you're still infatuated with him."

"We were in love," Nadine says simply.

"You know that isn't a good enough reason."

"You've never done things you hated for the person you love?"

"There are lines I'd never cross. I've _never_ betrayed my country for the person I love."

"If Henry asked—"

"He'd never ask that of me."

"We should all be so lucky," Nadine spits acidly.

Elizabeth narrows her eyes at Nadine's tone. "You chose to fall for a man who would never truly belong to you. You allowed his manipulations and ambitions to cloud your judgment. That was _your_ decision, Nadine. Your mistake."

"You married your college sweetheart and he settled for teaching ethics to twenty-year-old idealists. So I don't expect you to understand—"

"Tread carefully here," Elizabeth warns quietly.

"—But some day, he may ask you to do unspeakable things on his behalf, and you'll do them no matter what. Because he _asked._ Because you love him. And then you'll know."

Elizabeth shakes her head. "That isn't me."

"It's all of us," Nadine says gently. Impulsively, she reaches forward and grasps Elizabeth's hand, the way Elizabeth once took hers. It causes the guard to tense up, but Nadine pays him no mind. She holds Elizabeth's hand tightly and though Elizabeth doesn't return her desperate grip, she doesn't pull away either. "It's _all_ of us," Nadine repeats. "One day you'll see that."

Elizabeth pulls her hand free and stands up. She leaves the room without looking back.

/

_Nadine slips into to Vincent's office at the end of the day, twenty minutes before he will leave to meet the plane. He's going to Caracas alone. Without her._

_It's just for one weekend, true, but it was supposed to be_ their _weekend together—without his wife, without their work, without Tamerlane hanging over their heads._

_She closes the door and flicks the lock smartly, then saunters over to his desk. She drapes herself over the back of his chair and leans down, brushing light, teasing kisses along his jawline. "Have a safe trip," she whispers. "I'll be waiting oh-so-patiently for you to come back and—" she closes her teeth gently on his earlobe and tugs on it until he groans "—make it up to me."_

_He turns his head and captures her lips with his, kissing her with a steamy intensity that never fails to make her weak in the knees. He tangles his fingers in her hair and wraps his other arm around her waist to pull her into his lap._

_She reaches into her pocket and extricates her little memento as she kisses him, but before she can slip it into Vincent's chest pocket, he seizes her wrist and pulls away. He raises one eyebrow expectantly._

_Nadine merely smiles and releases her hold on the pendant tucked safely into her palm, letting it dangle in the air between them. The tiny Buddha sways gently in his view, suspended from a simple gold chain. She lowers it into his pocket._

" _Something to remember me by," she murmurs, and then kisses him sweetly on the lips._

* * *

I walk through my days like a ghost in a dream,

But the field carries on and my past follows me

It's hard moving on from the things you done wrong,

When they play in your head like an old fashioned song...

—Brandi Carlile, "The Things I Regret"


End file.
